69 Hues of Deez Nuts 6: Disney Reboots Indiana Jones
by BusterManwomb
Summary: In the dark and hopeless year of The Near Future, Disney owns everything, and in George Lucas' Darkest hour, it's down to one frog to reboot a franchise.
1. Chapter 1

About the Author:

Critics universally agree that "Buster Manwomb is to Literature what a midnight screening of I Spit On Your Grave is to your chances of ever getting a second date."

When questioned about this judgement, Buster Manwomb will-without fail- collapse in a flattery-induced crying fit. Witness these crying fits and so much more on Twitter at BusterManwomb.

69 Hues of Deez Nuts 6: Walt Disney Reboots Indiana Jones

Chapter 1: Disney decides what to do

All seemed to be good in the near-future world. Disney owned everything, and the Executives were happily making more money per week than most of their employees could reasonably spend in a lifetime.

It was a sunshiny day behind the closed doors of the Executive Meeting Room, which was actually a gladiator pit where american fast food workers would tear each other limb from limb for the chance of winning luxurious luxuries like clean drinking water and insulin. Mickey Mouse and Randy Pitchford were laughing, holding a maternity leave cheque barely out of reach of a victorious-but still mortally wounded- woman, the fabric of her burger king uniform soaked in the csncer-ridden blood of a teenaged McDonalds cashier. Not that the cashier minded much. He already sold most of his vital organs to keep up with his student loan payments, and was dead even before the diabetic gladiators began to fight over who got to cannibalize his pancreas.

Then the door slammed open and a very fearful Kermit the Frog rushed in. "We're in trouble! The coke pit is almost empty!"

This sent the executives into a panic before Mickey Mouse raised a hand, commanding the silence of all present, lest they prefer exsanguination.

Mickey's jaw unhinged as his mouth opened, making room for the face of Walt Disney as it pushed up Mickey's throat, nestling between mickey's lips. Mickey's eyes turned milky white as Walt Disney assumed control of the body.

"This." Walt starred, black suspension juice leaking from his mouth. His voice was twisted, like if Emperor Palpatine spoke while gargling a single sip of water. "Is no need to panic!"

"Your grace…" the less expertly suspended head of Stan Lee started, not daring to make eye contact.

Walt let out a deep, gurgling noise as his throat filled with air. "What?"

"What shall we do, your grace?"

Walt sat ponderously. "We are still a couple years away befire we can marketably steal from the Jews again…" Liquid leaked from his mouth as he prepared to speak again. He called out, to no one in particular. "How long until the next Marvel movie comes out?"

"Four hours, your grace."

"And the next Star Wars Movie?"

"Six hours, your grace."

"And the next Animated movie?"

"Three hours regular, Six hours for pixar, your grace."

"and the next live action movie?"

"Thirty minutes, your grace."

"and the next _good_ live action movie?"

"Our scientists are struggling to find a name for the number, sir."

"Damn it!" Walt Disney wailed, his tortured voice echoing through the room. "We cannot put our faith in the live-action remake of _The Good DINOSAUR_! We need something NEW!" Walt slammed Mickey's fist to the nearest table. "Something FAST!"

Nobody dared make a sound. Even the gladiators were silent, pressing themselves to the wall beneath Walt, praying to avoid his attention.

Someone made a dreaded cough, and Walt lurched in its direction.

While George Lucas was technically still alive, he has grown so horrendously fat in his lavish idleness, he required a Baron Harkonnen-esque harness to help him move his body without pulverizing his bones. Though rolls of fat were tugging at his facial features downward so drastically that conventional displays of emotion were impossible, the look of dread in his eyes was unmistakable.

"George…" Walt grinned, lurching over to him. "We haven't done much with your… creative brood… have we?"

"...No, your grace." Goerge Lucas responded, barely louder than a whisper.

"Tell me…" Walt caressed the skin on George Lucas' head, suddenly digging into the flesh of the rear of his head, and tugging George Lucas' face uncomfortably close to Walt's. "What do you think we can do?"

"A, um, ah….." George Lucas gasped, panicking. "Maybe… a Monkey Island movie?"

Walt stared at George, confusion flickered across his face for a split second before giving way to venomous anger. "Did you… just... JOKE with me?"

Everyone in the room sat, petrified. You never wanted Walt Disney to think you were joking with him. At worst, you would be nailed to a chair while your family was set aflame. At best, you'd still be nailed to a chair and your family would still be immolated, but your eyelids would not be removed beforehand.

"No! No please, I was thinking out loud! Brainstorming, please!

"Keep brainstorming!" Walt gurgle-hissed.

George could feel the acidic suspension juice eat at his skin as it sputtered onto him. Walt knew. Walt did not care. "we haven't done Indiana Jones since the purchase! Maybe a reboot?"

At first, walt was motionless. For whar felt like an eternity that his lips slowly slithered upwards, tugging his face into a nightmarish grin. "I knew there was a reason we paid for you, Georgie!" Walt patted the breathless George's cheek, and returned to his seat. Only then did anybody in the room dare to breathe.

"I WANT AN INDIANA JONES MOVIE IN TWENTY MINUTES, OR YOU'RE ALL FIRED!" Walt screamed, goading the executives to scramble.

"Your grace" one of the executives asked. "What of the gladiators?"

Walt stared down into the pit. The gladiators cowered below him. The Walt Disney Legislative Department had made unintended press leaks a capital offense. Preventative murder was also allowed by all employees above the rank of "producer".

Walt's face slowly receded back down Mickey's gullet. As its eyes regained their color, and its piranha teeth pushed back in through their retractable gum slits, it grinned at the gladiators.

Nobody living has ever seen what Mickey's torso looks like when it opens up. All the executives saw were bony tentacles shoot out of the gap where Mickey's ribcage folded outward. the poor gladiators were last seen screaming as they were tugged into Mickey's torso. After half a minute of sounds akin to dozens of starving, debarked dogs eating live fish in ankle deep water, several handfuls of coarse, slightly pink bone meal dropped in clumps, piling between Mickey's legs.

The executives rushed to leave the room.

"How?" George Lucas half-cried, completely open to suggestions. "How could we made a movie in Twenty minutes? Even with all our newest technologies we need at LEAST and hour to churn one out!"

"I have an idea." Kermit the frog offered.

George Lucas looked at Kermit the Frog, desperately.

"Jim Henson was in your shoes, not long after he was reanimated." Kermit said mournfully. "There was someone, before the war. They churned out masterpieces faster than anyone could imagine."

"No!" The severed head of Jack Kirby yelled hard enough that he began to spin in the mysterio helmet full of suspension juice that he was kept in. "Absolutely not. When Jim presented that thing, Disney thought he was…. joking."

"Disney _liked _it!" Kermit insisted. "It was Jim that didn't like it! He was accused of Joking because he tried filming a one-man improv act instead!"

"It's suicide." Kirby muttered.

"So is doing nothing." Kermit insisted, turning to George. "At least this way, we have a chance."

"Please." George sputtered pleadingly. "Do whatever you can."

Nodding solemnly, kermit flipped open his Disney Brand iPhone. "Get me a security team and a Disneycopter, asap."


	2. Chapter 2

About the Author:

Buster Manwomb finally understands the burden of the Fates, to gaze upon the path of future history, no more able to change it than the currents of a river, or the falling of the rain. Numb, all they can hope for is the assurance that they may entertain themselves as best they can, come what may.

They masturbate to pictures of baked pasta bi-hourly.

Chapter 2: The Search

The Disneycopter was a interdimensional flying vehicle, cosmetically similar to Scrooge McDuck if he had Ninja Turtles instead of hands.

Kermit's Disneycopter took half a minute to fly to the heart of Dartmouth, one of the many cities to never recover from the Disney-Taco Bell wars.

A landing tentacle spiraled out of the Disneycopter's penis hole, easing Kermit and his protective unit of Stormtroopers to the ground.

What differentiated the ruins of Dartmouth from any other ruined city (aside from the fact that it looked worse before the war. (HA!)) were the inscriptions on the walls. They weren't this plentiful when Kermit last came here, years ago with the resurrected body of Jim Henson.

"What are we doing here, again?" One of the stormtroopers asked, following Kermit as he silently walked onward.

"Didn't you read-" the second stormtrooper paused to liquefy a betentacled mutant that leap from the shadows. "Didn't you read the memo? We're here to find a fanfiction writer."

"Unauthorized fiction is illegal, though."

"It was." the third stormtrooper said. "Disney's entire legal team was tasked with hunting this writer down. By the time they found them, the war had already broke out."

"Why didn't they send anyone to finish the job?"

"Why bother?" The Second stormtrooper asked, looking around the idle wasteland. "Who else is there to share anything with?"

"Hush." Kermit ordered, halting in front of a building. For the first few blocks, the streets and buildings were covered in fanfictions. Beautiful works of literature thousands of words long, detailing the visceral sexual goings on of any fictional character the mind could recall. As they walked the fanfictions became shorter, and before long devolved into phrases like "FIST FUCK ASS. FIST FUCK ASS" reapated millions of times over.

"This is the place." Kermit said, stopping in front of a ruined restaurant called 'Rapey Stu's House of Paprika and Testicles.'

"Was this a Disney Restaurant?" The first Stormtrooper asked.

"No way Disney would allow anything like- oh wait… Yup. Disney. Fox owned this chain." The third stormtrooper said, checking his holographic encyclopedia about the old world. "They were hiding under our noses this whole time.

Kermit held up a hand, goading the stormtroopers to silence. "I am looking for Author Surrogate!"

A gust of wind blew a mutated tumbleweed across their path.

"I need a fanfiction, and I have deli meats!" Kermit said, goading one of the stormtroopers to lift up a bowl of aromatic deli meats.

"Heh." a voice muttered.

"That came from the alley." the first stormtrooper muttered.

Kermit walked into the alley without hesitation. The stormtroopers followed, weapons ready.

Kermit stopped in front of the Rapey Stu's dumpster, knocking at the lid.

A apur of handsome, grapefruit-sized eyes suddenly shone in the darkness. "Fist fuck ass? FIST FUCK ASS!"

The stormtroopers pointed their blasters. Kermit waved them to ease. "You're Author Surrogate."

"Fist, fuck ass! Fist… Fuck… ahh. You're Kermit."

"Glad you recognize me." Kermit said.

"I made fanfiction of you."

"I know. They were revolting." Kermit said, waving his bad taste in literature like a flag. "I need something from you. Anything with Indiana Jones in it. Something cinematic."

"Meat first." The eyes fixated on the bowl of deli meat.

As the stormtrooper with the bowl drew near, two pasty, froglike arms shot from the darkness, grabbing the bowl and tugging it into the dumpster.

After a minute of moist snorts and dry burps, the eyes returned, accompanied by the light sound of lips smacking. "I have just the thing! Hold out your hand.

Kermit made a stormtrooper hold out a hand.

"No, no. it has to be you!"

Kermit accepted a latex glove from a stormtrooper, donning it before he held out his hand.

The froggy arm emerged from the darkness, dropping a dead tilapia into Kermits hand.

"What is this?" Kermit asked.

"That's the fanfiction you asked for!" Author Surrogate said. "Use it when you need it, and all your problems will be torn in half!"

_I have made a terrible mistake._ Kermit thought. "Can i get a text version, too?"

To his relief, a manuscript was thrown from the darkness, hitting one of the stormtroopers in the head.

"Pleasure doing business with you." Kermit said, turning around and walking away briskly. "Let's get the hell back.


	3. Chapter 3

About the author:

Buster Manwomb is a virile bachelor whose hobbies include long walks off of short piers, and tweeting pictures of prolapsed reptile anuses to TERFs on Twitter. (Follow them at BusterManwomb)

Chapter 3: The Wreckoning

There was one minute left in the twenty minute deadline when Kermit entered the executive screening room. George Lucas sat in his harness before the main screen, shaking nervously. His eyes lit up when he saw Kermit. "Thank God! Where were you?"

"Getting your movie." Kermit said, holding up the tilapia.

George Lucas' disposition shriveled. "What is that?"

"Your movie." Kemit said, dropping it onto the table in front of George Lucas. "At least I hope so. I spent a whole bowl of spam on it.

George was about to loudly proclaim how screwed he was when the tilapia suddenly grew tentacles and slithered towards the 32k super-ultra-mega resolution movie player. It somehow totally wedged itself into the disc drive when the temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees.

George struggled to see behind, but Mickey had definitely entered the room, with the remaining executive staff shuffling meekly behind it. It's piranha teeth chittered as it's pupils seemed to grow. One twisted to focus on the screen. the other singularly fixated on George.

"Well?" Mickey asked, raspily and gutturally. "Begin. Huh-haugh…."

Without any manual prompt, the tilapia-stuffed movie player jerked to life.

The logo's of all the companies Disney owned took up the first hour of screen time. Then the video started. A four hundred pound middle-aged man snorting cocaine in a parking lot seemed to be wearing an Indiana Jones costume designed for six year olds.

"Jesus fuck!" the fat man jumped back, looking genuinely surprised that he was being filmed. "Right! Hi there! Im Tony Montana, mild-mannered frug lord and inexplicably dorky high schooler. By day I go to school and deal cocaine like any _normal _high schooler!"

For some reason, no matter what scene, or from what angle, Bob Ross seemed to be sitting on a stool in the background, unmoving, unblinking, staring straight into the camera with a slackened grin.

A long slender blade pushed out the tip of Mickey's finger. George could feel it press against the arterial support cord of his harness.

"But by NIGHT!" The fat man continued jerkily, ignoring a worryingly prominent nosebleed. "I'm Indiana Jones!"

The screen suddenly cut the the temple from the start of Raiders of the Lost Ark, only the fat man was carefully preparing to tug a golden butt plug off of a pressure plate.

"Unfortunately, due to an indecisive casting director, I turn into a thousand lesbians when I am Indiana Jones."

The fat man's skin disintegrated, revealing a mass of unconquerable darkness from which a thousand screaming lesbians seeped out, grabbing the butt plug and squeezing itself along the walls of the temple.

"Oh holy shit-balls! Get this fucking thing off of me!" Ho-Jon screamed, apparently played by a very surprised John Cena chained to a wolf. In subtitles he said 'Hurry Indy, you activated a booby trap!"

Indy and Ho-John rushed along the temple, with hundreds of Indy's lesbian appendages slithering along the walls like a Fromsoft monster.

The iconic giant ball rolled down the hallway, but stopped after getting wedged into place by merely a few dozen of Indiana Jones' lesbians.

"Fucking hell get this furry fucking thing off of me!" Ho-Jon screamed, in subtitles asking "Golly gee, Mistah Jones, are you alright?"

"My queen has laid more lesbians." Indy said. "I am already back up to one thousand lesbians."

"AAAAAAAAAHH FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!" Ho-Jon said, punching his wolf parts, expressing relief in subtitles.

Suddenly a green portal opened up. Iron Man jumped out.

"Indiana Jones! We need your help!" Iron Man said.

"No!" Indy said, obstinately pertaining to the archetypal path of the Hero's quest.

"Please?" Iron Man said.

"Okay!" Indiana Jones followed Iron Man, leaving Ho-Jon, who seemed too busy clawing, biting, and punching himself to contribute.

A low grumble leaked from Mickey's mouth. George could feel the knife press harder against his harness.

Indiana Jones sat at a table in a small room. Iron Man, Rick and Morty, and the Mona Lisa sat at a table.

"Did it just get crowded in here?" Morty asked.

"Well, they say that four's a crowd!" The mona Lisa said, making everyone present laugh as Indy smooshed her against a wall. The ony person that didn't laugh was Rick, whose entertainment value compensated for his horribly toxic personality.

"Enough Jokes!" Iron Man said. "Doctor Mantis Toboggan is selling Drugs to kids again! We need to stop him. Rick, can you do anything about it?"

"Sory, tin man." Rick burped. "I need to be written by somebody waaaay more-urp- talented to work as a character. I'm going to finish this *braaaaap* vodka and collapse on a pile of fanboys that confuse intelligence and confidence for character appeal."

And so Rick Sanchez did just that, vommitting onto and then collapsing onto a pile of socially inept fanboys who were hidden just off screen until then cooing stupid things like "He's such a role model!" and "I'm totally a Rick!"

"I better, uh, stay with him." Morty said. "You know, so he doesn't, uh, choke on his tongue. It's happened before."

"Teleport me to Toboggan's office." Indiana said to Iron Man, all two-thousand eyes glisteninbg with inspiration "I'll whip the drugs out of his hand."

"Great Idea!" Iron Man said, doing so.

fade out, fade in to a office on Frank Reynolds' private Jet.

"Mantis Toboggan! Indy screamed as he teleported into the jet, pressing himself against every surface. "Stop selling drugs to kids!"

"I'm not mantis toboggan! Frank Reynolds insisted as his jet rapidly filled with lesbians.

"Yes you are" Insistiana Jones. "I got teleported here!"

"I'm Frank Reynolds! Look as my wall."

Indiana Jones' lesbian that was smooshed against the back wall looked at the mounted Trump University Degree, majoring in exploiting Vietnamese men. Sure enough, it was in Frank Reynolds' name.

"Huh." Indy said. "My mistake, I suppo-"

and then the plane exploded. Frank Reynolds' jet was only fit to carry a hundred and fifty people plus luggage, but his plane was filled with a thousand lesboans so quickly that neither he nor his pilot realized that the plane was falling like Jussie Smollett's credibility.

Iron Man and the Mona Lisa flew to the wreckage. Amidst the flaming wreckage was tonnes of drugs and a pair of Groucho Marx glasses.

"So Frank Reynolds was Mantis Toboggan this whole time." Iron Man said, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have had him weigh in on our investigation."

"Yes!" The mona lisa twitched, hiding cocaine in her nose and shirt when no one was looking. "You think you know a guy."

Iron man turned to a rescue worker. "Any survivors?"

"The whole place is about as lively as Kevin Spacey's work schedule." The rescue worker said. "Sorry."

As the mournful music swelled, a coked up Mona Lisa pointed to the wreckage."Alack! The fick is that?"

Suddenly a thousand hands shot into the air from the ground, and Indiana Jones triumphantly stood up, suffering a scratch above his left eyebrows.

"Indy!" Iron Man said. "But how?"

"Nothing is more unstoppable than a thousand lesbians!" Indiana Jones said, saluting a Pride flag in the background. "Let's go eat shawarmas."

The credits rolled, and in one final plot twist, the avengers change their minds and go eat donairs instead. The donair joint they chose had a House of the Dead arcade machine. They all had a good time. The film ended when the camera zoomed in on Bob Ross, still staring into the camera from the back of the Donair joint, when the screen exploded.

The screening room was silent. Mickey Mouse got up, and shuffled into George Lucas' view. Kneeling, his unsettlingly large, realistic eyes whitened as his jaw spread and Walt Disney's face slid up his throat.

"I love it!" Walt screamed, spitting suspension juice across George's face. "I knew you had something better than "Crystal Skull" in you, you fat bastard! I'm going golfing!"

The End

No it isn't!

Suddenly the tilapia burst out of the video player. It morphed into a hideous mass of muscular tentacles and cables. The first two shot through Mickey's head together, and and separated, peeling Walt's head in two with it.

The next two minutes were akin to the climax of Akira if it were directed by Michael Bay. The Tilapia destroyed all that was owned by Disney, essentially tearing down all of human civilisation, and feeding upon its participants. At the end of it all, Kermit sat unmolested, accompanied solely by the wheezing pre-corpse of George Lucas, who with his harness broken, was crushing himself under his own body weight.

"Damn it." Kermit thought elegiacally. "I really want a Donair now."

The End. For real this time.


End file.
